


(least) favorite things

by illdancetoanything



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Broken Bones, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne's A+ Parenting (for real), Crying, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is Robin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Minor Character Death, My First Fanfic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oops, Whump, Whumptober 2019, but only sometimes, i'm sorry i know nothing about DC, it was supposed to be whump but turned into hurt/comfort, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illdancetoanything/pseuds/illdancetoanything
Summary: This is my first ever fanfiction, even though I've read an ungodly amount. Please be kind!Whumptober 2019 prompts with Dick Grayson as the focus. Chapters not related to one another. Stories will be short, probably only a scene or two. I started doing the prompts in order, but threw that out the window. Tags will be updated.I also changed the title from Whumptober 2019, was getting kind of bored with it.





	1. Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic! I just saw the prompts for Whumptober scrolling through Tumblr, and thought, "hey, I could do that!" So, this might be awful, but you know what, I have to start somewhere.  
Also, I just got into DC stuff, particularly Batfam, but I don't know a whole lot yet. Each chapter will probably be a different combination of the various cannons I've been exposed to. Work with me here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Shaky Hands  
Bruce finds a very young Dick struggling with reminders of his parents' death.

When Dick Grayson first became Robin, he was still struggling the loss of his parents. Bruce couldn’t blame him; he was only eight, and had just watched both his parents die in front of him. If anything, he could sympathize. But time has somewhat eased the pain in Bruce’s heart since he was a child, and perhaps he hadn’t quite expected the degree of Dick’s grief.

It caught him off guard, the first time he really saw it physically affect Dick. He walked into the gym while Dick was practicing, flipping himself upside down and sideways on the rings, contorting his body in ways Bruce had previously thought impossible. He watched the young acrobat swing his body over to a nearby trapeze bar, hands only touching it for a moment before passing it beneath his legs, leaving his body hanging from his knees. And then… he stopped.

Curious, Bruce edged closer to his ward, not wanting to alarm him. Usually Dick was nonstop motion, always twisting and jumping about, chattering and bright. This swaying slightly back and forth in the air, staring listlessly at his wrapped fingers was a bit alarming.

“You alright there, chum?” Bruce asked quietly, once the stillness had lasted a few seconds too long. Despite his efforts, Dick still jerked a bit in surprise, curling his head backwards to look down at the larger man standing next to the mats. Wordlessly, he replied with a shake of his head.

“You want to come down and talk about it?” Bruce suggested, neck beginning to get sore from staring up.

Thankfully, Dick took him up on the offer, although still disturbingly quiet, and jumped down from the apparatus onto the mats below. Head bowed, dark hair swinging down to cover blue eyes, Dick walked over to stand in front of Bruce. He was still staring at his hands. Bruce could now see that they were shaking.

“I’m supposed to be good at this,” Dick whispered, just barely loud enough for Bruce to hear. The taller man knelt down to look better see the boy’s expression. It was uncharacteristically somber, eyebrows pinched in a kind of frustrated and mournful distress that didn’t belong on such a young face. “This is the only thing I’m supposed to be good at,” Dick started again, “but every time I grab the bar I just can’t… I just can’t… I-I feel like it’s all happening a-again…”

Bruce felt his own brow scrunch in sympathy as Dick’s voice hiccupped with barely contained sobs, tears beginning to pool in those sky-blue eyes. His hands shook harder, and Bruce found himself enclosing them in his own, feeling giant next to his little bird.

“If I just could have swung a bit farther… or stretched that little bit…” Dick was whispering, tears now leaking down his cheeks, “but I wasn’t good enough.”

“No. No, Dick, it wasn’t your fault. No one blames you for what happened, and I think you’re incredibly strong to keep trying,” Bruce whispered back, trying desperately to reassure this child that had brought so much light into his life. Alarm raced through his veins when Dick yanked his hands out of Bruce’s grasp, but before he could chase after them, he found the child’s thin arms wrapped around his torso, clinging as tightly as an eight-year-old could.

Gently, Bruce secured his now free hands around the boy, one wrapped around his shoulders and back, the other resting on the back of the head that was squashed into Bruce’s shoulder.

“Why couldn’t I die with them?” the child sobbed, and Bruce took the words like a club straight to his heart. He tightened his grip and turned to rest his head on Dick’s, trying to convey just how much he needed the boy here in his arms. Where would he be without his Robin?

“I don’t know why,” Bruce started, “but I am truly grateful you didn’t. Ever since you came here, you’ve been a blessing to both Alfred and me. Your jokes, and your smiles, and your constant light are what make the manor feel more like a home than it has in years,” _than it has since my parents died_, Bruce added in his head. “You, Dick Grayson, are what keeps me sane, running around out there every night, knowing that you are by my side. I need my Robin. My family.” Bruce couldn’t tell if the tears soaking his shirt were letting up or not, but he felt Dick’s arms loosen just slightly, no longer clenched in a death grip, but more of a strong hug. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, not sure what to do after baring his heart like that. “It’ll get easier. It just takes time.”

“Promise?” came the strained plea from his shoulder. Bruce lifted his head, positioning Dick in front of him so he could look him in the eye. The truth was, he wasn’t sure if it would get easier for Dick, someone who felt everything so deeply, who had left behind both his home and all his friends to come to Gotham, who was going to be living with Bruce, who had no idea how to be a father. But he knew that Dick was strong, could see the beginnings of steel in those young blue eyes. Bruce knew that whatever life threw at him, Dick would get back up.

“I promise.”


	2. Desert Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Explosion  
Nightwing and Red Hood are sent to investigate a signal coming from the middle of a desert. It's not as bad as it could be, but definitely not what they were hoping to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one kind of got away from me. I was just kind of writing and then... oops, it's over 3000 words. This one is much more whumpy than the first, though.

Dick hated this place. Not nearly as much as Jason, based on the amount of complaining that was coming from behind him, but still. Surrounded by nothing but sand and rock formations for miles, not a cloud in the sky, sun beating down mercilessly, Dick couldn’t think of anyone who would actually like being out here.

Dick and Jason had been warned about the harsh climate, but given the potential for combat on this mission, neither could risk going without their normal armored gear. Jason had ditched the leather jacket, and, despite Tim’s suggestion that he cover as much skin as possible, left his black short-sleeved top. Dick couldn’t think of a good way to modify his own outfit on such short notice to accommodate the weather, so he was left in his typical Nightwing gear.

“’-there will be trace evidence somewhere,’ he says,” Jason was growling behind him, kicking up clouds of dust with every aggravated stomp. “’Just look for clues,’ he says. Well, newsflash, douchebag, _there are no clues in all this fucking sand!_”

“Calm down,” Dick replied without much heat. He was also getting tired of the endless sand, even though they had only been there a few hours. His suit was made for flying through the air on cool nights, not traipsing around in the sun without a hint of a breeze, and Dick’s sweat was making it was stick uncomfortably to his skin. “We’re almost to the place where Batman said the signals were coming from. We find what send out that frequency, deal with it, and then we can head home.”

Jason snorted and wandered over to Dick’s side. “Sure. Just deal with it. Not like it could potentially be the underground headquarters of the crazies who tried to bomb the Justice League.”

“If Batman thought it was something big, he would have sent reinforcements,” Dick argued, not voicing his own concerns. It was unusual for the Bat to ask Red Hood for help, given the fact that they could barely be in the same room these days without going at each other’s throats. When Batman had sent Nightwing a message about the mission and told him to enlist Red Hood, it made Dick wonder. If at all possible, Batman usually tried to keep Jason as far from his other Robins as possible, although he’d given up trying to make Dick leave his younger brother alone. The pairing suggested that the rest of the team was unavailable, either dealing with other missions or injured, Dick didn’t know. He hoped that if anyone was hurt, Bruce would have told him, but given his history, Bruce would probably wait until the mission was over so he “wasn’t distracted.” If this did turn out to be something larger than a small cell, Dick wasn’t sure there would be reinforcements to call.

For now, Dick tried to ignore his uneasy thoughts and look instead at the present. It wasn’t much better, he thought, running a hand across his neck, trying to unstick the dark hair that clung there. Maybe he should have at least gotten a haircut before leaving for this mission.

“Nightwing.” Dick was pulled out of his thoughts by Jason throwing an arm across his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Confused, he squinted in the direction it appeared Jason was looking, although the helmet made it hard to pinpoint.

“What?”

“Behind the rock formation at eleven o’clock.”

Dick adjusted his gaze to see something glint from behind the brown stone, just to the right side of the structure, maybe five hundred yards away, then quickly move back behind the formation. He felt more than saw Red Hood mirror his body movements, turning shoulders and setting a foot back, making their bodies smaller targets. Robin training didn’t just go away, after all.

After a few seconds and no shots fired, Nightwing started to creep closer, ignoring Red Hood’s hiss of caution. A few steps out, he heard heavy footsteps following. They made it all the way to the formation, muscles tense and hands on weapons, carefully keeping the rock between them and the spot where the glare had disappeared. Once there, Nightwing stopped, looking at Red Hood, pointed to himself, and then up at a ledge about thirty feet up the tower of rock. Hood nodded, pulling out a gun (loaded with rubber bullets, as they always were for Bat-sanctioned missions), and pointed at the left side of the rock.

In a matter of seconds, Dick had scaled the formation up to the ledge he’d been aiming for. He glanced down, watching Jason’s own path around the side of the rock. Once Red Hood turned his helmet to look up at Nightwing, confirming they were ready to move, Dick crept around the corner of the structure. At the same time, he heard the sweep of Jason’s boots in the sand as he lunged out from his cover on the ground. Their sighs of relief came at the same time.

“Just a fucking camera,” Jason growled, lowering his weapon to his side.

It was a camera, mounted so as to swing around the side of the rock every minute or so, which was what had made the glare. But it was mainly rotating to view the opposite side of the rock than the men had been on, although Dick couldn’t see anything there.

“But what’s a security camera doing out in the middle of nowhere?” Nightwing asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“Probably monitoring whatever sent out that signal the replacement pinged,” Jason answered, head turning to watch the empty space the camera was pointed at. A heavy sigh came out distorted through the helmet. “And now we have to deal with it.” He took a step toward the sandy nothing, carelessly putting himself in the camera’s field of view.

“Hood!” Dick yelled, feeling his stomach drop out as the swiveling lens suddenly locked onto his brother’s position. Some stupid instinct drove him to leap across the ledge to try to get to Jason. From the air, he saw the tiny light on top of the camera turned from green to red. He saw Hood start to duck down and turn his back to the device. He saw the explosion ripple the sand outward from where the camera met the ground. He didn’t see anything after that.

Dick woke up laying on his stomach, feeling sticky. It was like when he’d gone to the beach with Bruce as a kid, and the sunscreen made sand whipped up by the wind stick to his legs and arms and chest. Except, it was much hotter here than at the beach, and he couldn’t hear Bruce teasing his desperate attempts to wipe off all the grains. He couldn’t hear anything over the loud whine in his ears. Upset that his ears weren’t working, Dick tried to open his eyes. They didn’t feel as covered in sand as the rest of him, at least. He succeeded, but all he saw was darkness. That wasn’t helpful.

Struggling to wake his sluggish mind, Dick forced himself to remember what had happened. Mission from Bruce. In the desert. With Jason. An exploding camera. Dick’s heartrate picked up; he could hear the blood thrumming in his ears, but was too worried to notice his senses returning. Where was Jason? Dick shifted his legs to get up and look for his younger brother. The world whited out.

When Dick came back to his senses, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The ringing in his ears had all but vanished, and he was still facedown in the sand. Luckily, his head was turned just enough over his left shoulder to breathe. His legs were mostly straight out behind him, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. Everything felt a little bit off. His left arm laid perpendicular to his body, hand outstretched. His right arm… he could feel under his torso, but he had no sensation in the actual arm. He chalked it up to lack of blood flow and moved on before he could panic. His mask had shifted so the lenses were no longer aligned with his eyes, which was why he couldn’t see earlier. Cautiously, Dick stretched his left fingertips, trying to avoid whatever had happened the last time he tried to move. They ached horribly, and, Dick was just now noticing, so did the rest of him, but it was bearable. Slowly, he drew in his elbow and shifted his shoulder, just enough that his fingers could readjust the mask. His shoulder in particular screamed at the movement, and Dick guessed it was probably dislocated. That was a later problem. The process was tedious and painful, and Dick didn’t even want to think about trying to stand like this, but his efforts were rewarded with sight.

At first everything was bright, far too bright, and Dick had to blink a few times before he could see anything useful. Half his face was still buried in sand, so his right eye wasn’t helping, but his left could see a wall of red rock a few feet from where his left arm had been, parallel to his body. Still not really helpful.

“Nightwing!” The sudden shout came from somewhere close over Dick’s right shoulder, where he couldn’t see, but he knew that voice. A bit rough and panicky, but that was Jason.

Before Dick could try to muster the energy to call back, let his little brother know he was okay (_was he even okay?_), he felt the impact of combat boots by his side, followed by a muffled thump that he assumed was Jason falling to his knees. He felt large hands gently cup his head, before gently settling on his neck. _Looking for a pulse. _The hands were bare, gloves abandoned. A sigh as they found what they were looking for. It was a clear sound, unhindered by the helmet.

“You awake, Nightwing?” His voice sounded more uncertain than Dick had heard in a very long time. He couldn’t think of when. Belatedly, he realized that was a question for him, and managed a grunt in response. He was really tired.

The hands were back on his body, his shoulders this time, gently trying to maneuver Dick’s body onto his back. Everywhere the hands touched, pain sprung up anew, drawing Dick back to wakefulness. When he felt his weight shift over the arm pinned under his body, the entire limb turned to fire. He screamed, choking on pain and sand. His world narrowed down to those two things, tuning out Jason’s frantic apologies and curses. The pain rushed through his blood, sparking every nerve into a frenzy, and the sand rushed in through his nose and mouth, flooding his lungs. He was deeply grateful that he passed out again.

When Dick woke for the third time, he was pleased to find his face no longer partially submerged in the desert. Instead, it appeared Jason had turned him onto his back and leaned him against a rock, probably the one Dick had seen while half-conscious. From here, Dick could see the remnants of the formation near the camera, chunks of stone scattered about the dunes. A sturdy monolith, ripped to shreds. _That was what had happened to him_. He recalled how he’d felt before passing out, heart pumping pain, lungs pumping sand. That made a bit more sense now. His entire body felt broken, aching.

He turned his head to look at his right arm, only to be stopped by a familiar voice. “Look who’s finally awake.” The tone that would normally be taunting now sounded partially relieved, still a little scared.

“Jay,” Dick croaked out. He felt every grain of sand shift in his throat and winced. With great effort, he turned to look at the larger figure crouched next to him.

“I don’t know how much you remember. Even if you didn’t hit your head, that blast probably still rattled your brain a bit,” Jason’s voice was a bit rough, but not nearly as bad as Dick’s. His helmet was gone, leaving messy hair and the mask he wore underneath. “The camera we found was a setup, probably by the people Tim traced back to this location. Once it saw us… saw _me_ in range, it blew up. I looked around a bit while you were out, and it looks like it used to be connected to a computer or something that sent the signal in the first place. Everything’s in smithereens, now.”

Dick nodded as much as he could. At least there weren’t any enemies around. But that still left… “You?” he croaked.

“Got hit by a chunk of the rock formation. It split my helmet just about in two, but it also pushed me under the sand for the worst of the blast. Relatively small radius, just enough to take out someone close without armor. I’m a little bruised, but fine. You, on the other hand…” Jason ran a hand through his hair in irritation.

“_You_ jumped _toward_ the bomb like an _idiot_, and got thrown over that rock all the way back to this one. Tossed your skinny ass like a ragdoll. The way you went all limp when you hit and just fell…” Where Jason’s voice had begun angry and reprimanding, it now faded away into something softer, more vulnerable. Dick wished he could find the strength to hug him.

“So.” Jason had come back to himself, and was now looking at Dick expectantly. “What about you? Where does it hurt, Dickiebird?” The last question was probably thrown in as a joke, but Dick could hear real concern behind it

He steeled himself to focus on the pain he’d been trying his best to ignore since he woke up. “Everywhere,” he got out through gritted teeth, trying to keep his tone light as he assessed the damage. “Probably a few broken ribs. My right arm—”

“Yeah, you don’t want to look at that,” Jason quickly interrupted. “Burned a bit, then broken when you landed on it. It was bleeding earlier, but it pretty much stopped on its own. I also had to pop both of your shoulders back while you were unconscious, by the way. And… your left hip is where you hit the rock. I think your leg’s dislocated, but it didn’t… feel right when I went to put it back, so I left it.”

“Mmm,” Dick mumbled, experimentally shifting the leg a bit. Sure enough, white-hot, stabbing pain lanced through his body, and Dick stamped down another scream. His throat already burned; he really didn’t need to scream right now. A muffled groan escaped him instead. “Might be broken…” he thought aloud.

“The leg or the hip?” Jason asked, turning his glance down to what Dick knew was probably an ugly sight. Against his better judgement, Dick followed his gaze. His femur and pelvis were definitely not supposed to be angled like that, no matter how flexible he was.

“Yes?” Dick replied, feeling very much like passing out again. His brain must have been rattled, at least a bit, or else the pain was getting to him, because things were starting to get a bit woozy.

Jason sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. “I sent out an emergency message to the Cave,” he was saying. “If someone’s there, they’ll be here in a couple of hours. Now we just have to wait.”

“Your favorite,” Dick managed, trying to pull up his mouth in a smile. It felt like his skin was being ripped from his face. He usually didn’t burn in the sun, but with this much exposure, plus the bomb, all bets were off.

Jason let out a snort, leaning back on the rock next to his older brother so they were side by side. He pulled off his mask, and Dick felt himself release tension he didn’t know he’d been holding, finally able to see those familiar blue-green eyes.

Dick raised his left hand for a split second to point at Jason’s arms before gravity yanked it back down. “Gonna have awful tan,” he mumbled, words barely scraping out of his burning throat.

“My jacket will cover them. Your face, though…” Jason retorted, gesturing to Dick’s mask. Dick struggled to grin back at him.

“Don’t tan… not like… like you… Little Wing,” he rasped, thinking about the freckles Jay got in the summers in Gotham. Maybe that was why he wore the helmet now, Dick mused, so he wouldn’t get freckles anymore. That would be sad. Dick really liked his freckles. Every time he’d pointed them out, Jay’s ears and cheeks burned red and he’d tried to bury his face in the collar of his shirt. That was cute, too. Dick was kind of sad his own skin didn’t freckle. That would be fun. Would his freckles be blue like his eyes?

“-ck. Dick!” The yelling made him open his eyes. When had he closed them? He found his vision filled with a worried looking Jason, holding Dick’s mask in one hand, probably to check if he was conscious. “You gotta stay awake, man.”

“Mm-kay,” Dick found himself saying, even though his eyes burned when they were open. The sun was going down, but everything still burned. At least Jay had them on the side of the rock where they were now in the shade. 

“Keep talking.”

“Hm?”

“I need to be sure you don’t pass out on me. So, keep talking. Isn’t that what you do best?”

Dick felt his lips twitch up, the closest to a smile as he could get right now, and focused as hard as he could at making those lips form words. “Yeah, sure. Sure, I can keep… talking. You remember… how you used to get freckles… in the summer?”

Just like how he remembered, Jay tucked his chin into his collar, blood rushing to his ears and cheeks. “I take it back,” he said into his shirt. “You can shut up now.”

“We talk about… something else. Like the time… you locked yourself in the Batcave overnight… and Bruce found you all snuggled up… in his cape.”

“Oh my god, Dick.”

“You were tiny.”

“Not anymore, I’m not.”

“But you were… my Little Wing… my first little brother.”

“Please… talk about something else. How’re you feeling?”

“Hurts… Before, everything just… just kinda ached. But… but now it’s like…” Dick didn’t know how to describe the waves rippling through his body, pushing his mind further and further from reality. It seeped through his muscles, his bones, his skin, radiating from his left leg and right arm. “Like I’m ripping apart,” he settled on.

He saw Jay’s sympathetic wince beside him, but his vision was… weird.

“Things look kinda… kinda fuzzy. I really… I just really wanna sleep. Can I go to sleep now, Jay?”

“No, buddy. Keep talking to me. What were you doing before the mission?”

Dick kept answering Jason’s questions, taking less and less time with each topic before falling back on his request. He just wanted to take a nap. Maybe when he woke up it would hurt less. Every now and then Jay would have to shake him awake, and that made everything hurt all over again. That was mean. Jay should stop doing that.

He was losing track of time, but he noticed that the sun was almost completely down. He was chilly. There was a humming sound. A plane, he thought. For some reason the sound of the plane made him happy, but smiling was hard right now. He also heard shouting. Jay sounded angry. Or maybe scared. He yelled when he was scared, too. Dick wanted to hug his little brother tight to his chest, and make whatever was upsetting him go away. But he just felt so heavy, and everything hurt. Maybe when he woke up, he could find Jay again, he thought.

_No_, a voice in his head reminded him. _You’re not allowed to sleep yet!_ Dick blinked the haze out of his eyes, trying to focus. Other people were there. He only kind of felt the hands picking him up, dragging him into the nice warm plane. Everything was dull next to the pain. He was laying down now on something soft. Oh no. He couldn’t stay awake on something soft. He attempted to speak, to tell someone to move him, but his mouth was dry and his throat was on fire.

“It’s okay,” someone was saying. “We’ve got you, Nightwing. You can pass out in a few seconds.”

Nah. Dick was gonna pass out now. And he did.


	3. Flying and Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 3: Delirium  
A teenage Dick has an unfortunate encounter that leaves him out of sorts.

Robin should have known better than to run off on his own in the middle of patrol. But, in his defense, Batman was being completely unreasonable. So what if the scene was a little gory? Dick had grown up in a circus. He’d seen people get compound fractures, third degree burns, and a smattering of other unlikely injuries before he turned ten. But oh, no, heaven forbid Batman let his partner help take down one of the largest human trafficking rings on the East Coast because it was a little _messy_. Robin was 17 years old, and a seasoned vigilante, not some child that needed constant coddling and censorship. Not anymore, at least.

So, Robin left while Batman was engaged in his super-important, don’t-need-backup business. He’d be damned if he was just going to sit on the neighboring roof and wait for Batman to finish up when he could be helping people. He wasn’t about to barge in after being explicitly told to stay out of it, especially after Alfred had literally _just_ asked both Dick and Bruce to stop antagonizing each other so much. And it was the kind of asking that was really telling, so Dick had promised to try to follow Bruce’s rules for at least a week. No way Robin was going in there. But Batman hadn’t said anything about staying nearby, so Robin was free to spread his wings across the rest of Gotham, find some other crime where his assistance would be appreciated. Batgirl was running communications that night with a broken arm, so he might have asked her for some directions, but that broken arm had also been the cause of another fight. Robin didn’t want Babs to be so reckless, especially since she still had family to go home to, and Babs had called Dick a hypocrite, which was… kind of fair. But he was still mad at her, and cut off his comm link as soon as he left the warehouse Batman was dealing with.

So far, Robin’s escapade had mostly entailed stopping some would-be muggers and one very poorly planned home invasion, interspersed with his usual flips and aerial tricks. For Gotham, it was downright peaceful. Robin should have suspected that something bad was coming. Gotham never stayed peaceful for more than an hour or two, at most.

In total, Robin was really more surprised than he had any right to be when one of his flips between rooftops was interrupted by something curling around his waist. Thrown off balance, Robin crashed into the side of the building his was aiming for.

“Is the little birdie by himself, tonight?” a female voice crooned through the night, as Dick scrambled onto a windowsill to keep himself from hitting the ground below. He quickly looked down at his waist and saw a green vine with blue flowers clenched there.

“Ivy. What brings a nice lady like yourself out at this hour? Gotham can be a real dangerous city, you know,” Dick remarked, pulling out a Batarang and easily slicing through the plant wrapped around him. It expelled some sort of gas the same color as the flowers, and Dick instinctively held his breath as the vine fell away.

“I was just out planting a few trees, you know, giving the city a more natural vibe.” Poison Ivy’s voice was coming from below the window where Robin was perched, but the gas was still surrounding him. He’d only fallen a few feet from the skyline…

“Why do I get the feeling that your trees eat people or something?” Robin muttered, leaping from his current ledge to the roof he’d flipped off of in the first place.

Robin barely got his feet planted on the roof before more vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles, yanking him backward off the edge. He was too trained to yelp as he went down, but a gasp of air involuntarily left his lungs when he hit the ground. The same blue gas that had spilled from the vine earlier was now pouring out around him, and Dick did his best to not breathe.

“I’m not an idiot, Boy Wonder,” Poison Ivy was saying, her vines holding a struggling Robin flat against the ground, with no way to escape the fog. “I can recognize a futile cause when I see it. And trying to save this polluted wreck of a city with you and the Bat running around just isn’t working out for me. But I’ve learned. This pretty pollen isn’t quite Scarecrow-level fear gas, but I assure its much more fun. Your mind will give out on you, and then you can’t interfere anymore. By the time you know up from down, this concrete jungle will be a real jungle, and I can move on to the other smoggy dumps of the world. I _was_ hoping Batman would be with you, but we’ll get to him soon. You need to breathe soon, little boy.”

As much as being called a little boy pissed Robin off, he knew she was right about breathing. Robin could normally hold his breath for much longer, but he’d had the wind knocked out of him immediately before the pollen had surrounded him, and the world was going black at the edges. He gave another full-body squirm, trying to loosen his binds, but his muscles were weakened without oxygen. He couldn’t reach anything in his belt, his limbs were all being held away from his body, none of them close enough to even bite. If he couldn’t escape, Robin would at least deny her the satisfaction of watching him give in. He’d pass out before he allowed that stuff into his body.

A foot suddenly crashed against his ribs, and Robin found his traitorous lungs spasming, gasping, drawing in the toxic blue mist.

“There you go. Really drink it in,” Ivy encouraged, withdrawing her foot from where Robin was laying.

Robin… couldn’t see anything wrong with that. The blue stuff smelled sweet, like flowers and peppermint and fruit. It was cool against his throat and breathing it deeply eased the burning in his desperate lungs. The more he breathed, the looser the vines around his wrists and ankles got, and he could move around a bit. That was nice. But he… he wasn’t supposed to be breathing, he thought. But that was silly. He needed air to live; why on earth would he not breathe?

“Hey there, birdy-boy,” a voice was saying. It was a woman. Robin looked up. The woman was wearing all green, a leafy outfit like a Halloween costume of a nymph, and had long bright red hair. He knew someone, _no, wait,_ loved someone with red hair. She must be a friend. “Want to do me a favor?”

“Yeah, whatever you want.” Why was he saying that? He would do anything to make the red-haired lady happy, but he felt like someone might be mad at him. He’d promised… promised to be nice? Well, this was being nice to the red-haired lady. No one would be mad at him. “Can I stand up to do you a favor?”

“Sure.” She was smiling. Smiling was good. So why did it make his skin crawl?

Once standing, Dick found all kinds of cool things. Like buildings that went up and down inside of sideways, and a sky that was pitch black instead of a blue cloud. How could it be so black? He wanted to touch it. Reaching up, he heard something fluttering behind him. Dick whirled around it see it, but the fluttery sound followed behind him. Frustrated, he swung around again, but much faster than the sound could move, he was sure.

“What in the world are you doing?” someone asked.

“Gonna catch it!” he answered, reaching behind him to grab the fluttery thing over his shoulder. “Got it!” He pulled it in front of his face to see the sound. It was yellow. Yellow flutter. Flutter yellow. Flellow. Its name was flellow.

“Oh my god, you were chasing your cape. Well, as adorable as that is, I need something from you before you’re completely useless. I need you to call Batman, ok?” the voice was saying. It was definitely saying words. Words were cool, Dick thought. All the different sounds… sounds like flellow! Where had flellow gone? That was one of his favorite sounds.

“Hey!” There was a hand around his wrist, and it shouted at him. It hurt! “You listening? Call. Batman. I need him here. Do me this favor.” It hurt. “Ah!” Then it didn’t. He’d done something, and the something had made the hurt stop. He looked at the hand that had grabbed him. It had a bleeding red mouth, and was attached to a lady who was yelling at him. Why were the lady _and _the hand mad at him? He just wanted to be a good… what was he again? Then the hand was coming toward him again, and Dick’s body did what felt fun. It was fun to kick and spin. It was more fun to kick at the lady, because she was being mean. Mean and green, and green meant go. Go was running and jumping and flying and kicking and punching and grinning and wind and blood and finally safe. Safe was Batman. Who was Batman?

“You’re supposed to be disabled, not more violent!” Kick-spin-jump! Why was the lady still so angry? “You’re someone else’s problem, now.” The lady was gone now. Good. Dick was tired. He wanted to play a different game.

There were still blue clouds, and they smelled good. Dick tried to hold them all in his lungs at once. Then everything turned blue and Dick laughed. Then the world turned green, and then yellow, then red. He liked those colors even better! But the sky was still black. He remembered! Dick was supposed to touch the black sky, and hold the black sky in his lungs instead!

Dick knew how to get up. He was supposed to know. But he couldn’t. He ran at the buildings that went up and up and up, but he kept falling, falling, falling. He screamed. Falling was bad, death, parents dead. He could see them. His chest was tight. Breathing was hard. The world used to be so happy, why was it bad now? Everything was falling. Dick couldn’t fall. He would die if he fell. He was scared.

Then Dick realized that if he was up high, he would be flying, not falling! He just had to get up! Panicked, he raced at the wall in front of him as fast as possible and jumped. He ended up next to the sky somehow, and that was good. That was safer, but not safe enough. He had to be flying to stay safe. It was so cold up here. His hold body shook, like it was about to explode. He had to fly! If he was flying, he wouldn’t blow up… he thought. He knew how to fly; he was a bird! Just had to fly and nothing could hurt him.

He remembered to run, run right to the edge and then-

“Robin!” Something stopped him, wrapped him up. He fought back. It was stopping him from flying, trying to make him fall! He had to get out, had to get out! But it pressed closer and it was talking a lot and it smelled… not blue-sweet. It smelled like cloth and night and warm and home and safe. Dick stopped fighting. He was safe! But someone else wasn’t, he remembered. Two people had fallen, and they had died.

“-just leave like that! And then I find you trying to launch yourself into the river- are you crying?” the warm home voice was asking.

“Yes.” He was.

“What happened?” Nothing was wrapping him up anymore, and now the black sky was looking at Dick with two white eyes. Like the moon, but two. And not circles. He didn’t know what shape they were.

What had happened? Dick wasn’t sure, but he could remember the highlights. He told the warm home person. “Flellow… and an angry hand mouth… and I was supposed to call Batman… but I kept falling.”

“What? Batgirl, I think he’s been drugged. I’m bringing him back now. We’ll need an analysis of whatever this is as soon as we get back. Be ready.” The warm home voice wasn’t talking to him anymore. Dick saw he had a flellow, too. Except his wasn’t yellow. It wouldn’t get along with Dick’s flellow, so Dick should keep them far apart.

“Robin, look at me.” Dick looked at the not-flellow. It had to be who was talking, right? Dick’s flellow made sound, and words were just pretty sounds.

“Robin!” Then there were hands on his face making him look at the black sky’s moon eyes. Oh. The sky was talking.

“Jesus, kid, you’re burning up.” That didn’t sound right. He was cold. He was so cold he was going to explode. He told the sky why it was wrong, but the sounds were… harder now. His mouth was floating somewhere four feet in front of him, and he couldn’t throw the words far enough to reach. They kept falling before they got to his mouth. Falling.

Then he was laying down inside something and it was purring. Dick wasn’t sure if he liked cats or not. Luckily, the cat he was inside had windows, so Dick could look outside and forget about the cat. It was going really fast. Words were too short to get to his mouth, which was so far away, but he knew what would make it.

“Wheeeeeeee!”

The warm-home black-sky person put a hand over his mouth. How did it reach his mouth when it was so far? Dick was jealous. He wished he could reach his mouth. He pouted about it the rest of the ride in the cat. He decided he didn’t like cats if you weren’t aloud to scream in them. And it was even colder here than outside the cat.

Dick liked the cat much more than where they went afterward. Here there was yelling and scared and you-have-let-me-get-a-blood-sample and breathe-into-this and sitting on a metal table with no food. Tables should have food. Maybe Dick was the food. He didn’t like that idea very much. But here there was a nice girl with red hair and smart eyes, and the sky had come with him, which was very considerate of him. But mostly, Dick loved the girl with fire-red hair. She smiled at him and put a gentle hand on his wrist and—no! No, he’d loved red hair and red hair had an angry hand with a bloody mouth and red hair had hurt him!

Red hair pulled away and started to cry, and Dick was sorry, so he cried, too. He was sure that was what you did to make someone happy. If he cried all the tears, she wouldn’t have any left to make her sad. Sky tried to help him cry more by putting ice on his head. That was very helpful. The ice burned, and Dick wondered if it was on fire.

Then there was a snake that bit his arm and he tried to do the same thing to it he’d done to the angry hand that hurt him, to make it stop. But many hands held his body so that it couldn’t do any of the fun things, and then everything turned black.

Dick woke up in the medbay of the Batcave, head feeling like it was ready to split open. He groaned, and his throat felt swollen and scratchy. He glanced down at his arm to see an IV, and a shadow of a memory of a snake biting him suddenly made a tiny bit more sense. 

“He’s awake!” a voice called out, and Dick looked over to see Barbara sitting next to him, holding his hand in her own. She looked back at him and offered a tentative smile. It looked like she’d been crying. “You with us, Dick?”

“I think so. What on earth happened to me?” he asked, arranging himself so he was more upright. Nothing felt broken…

“We were hoping you could fill us in on some of that,” Batman said, walking into the medbay. He was dressed normally, not in the Batsuit, Dick noted. His expression was unreadable. “When I came out of the warehouse, you were gone and Batgirl couldn’t reach you. Luckily, we were able to track your suit, and I found you on a rooftop of a warehouse by the river. You were running like you meant to throw yourself in. You were definitely… altered, and running a dangerously high fever. You’re very lucky we were able to treat it with normal fever reducers, because neither Batgirl nor I could identify the substance in your system. All we know is that you inhaled it somehow.” Then he looked at Dick expectantly.

“I had a run-in with Poison Ivy.” That Dick was sure about. “I think… she had some kind of plant with blue flowers… and she said something about pollen. It’s all kind of fuzzy,” (that was an understatement) “but I think she was trying to dose you with the same stuff. I also might have bit her?”

Bruce stood there in silence for several seconds. He knew Dick wasn’t explaining why he hadn’t been near Batman, but Dick wasn’t going to tell him unless he asked. The last thing his aching brain needed was another fight about Batman treating him like a child.

Finally, Bruce just sighed. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he growled, a voice that would sound aggressive to most, but Dick recognized as the voice he used when he didn’t want to show how scared he was, especially as Batman.

“Me, too,” Babs added, and Dick looked back to her and gave her his best smile. Looking into her hazel eyes, he felt like he was flying. 


	4. Wear and Tear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 15: Scars  
A retired Dick Grayson looks back on his past and the physical consequences of a life in crime-fighting. Gentler subject.

Rarely, on particularly dark nights, when left only with the quiet whirring of his thoughts, Dick Grayson regretted certain things about being Robin, and Nightwing after. He didn’t regret becoming a vigilante, breaking the law and risking his life for the good of others. He didn’t even regret doing it with Bruce, although that had proved emotionally draining at the best of times and near unbearable at the worst. He had no qualms with his role in training the younger heroes, despite their own struggles and pains, because he knew Bruce would’ve done it anyway, and maybe Dick provided just a little more emotional intelligence than the original Bat for the process.

No, what Dick regretted was his own constant recklessness, practically ingrained in the personas he’d adopted over the years. As Robin, he’d flung himself headfirst into dangers he’d never truly comprehended, hadn’t wanted to comprehend. It had resulted in many an injury, quite a few broken bones, and a touch too many surgeries for his age. His mostly self-designed armor barely even counted as such. His legs and arms completely unprotected, his head (his brain, his personality, his memories), woefully open to blows and bullets.

But instead of listening to the quiet whisper of the pale scars drawn across his skin, the mended cracks in his skeleton, Dick had continued the exact same way. Of course, the Nightwing costume showed a bit less skin, but still lacked the heavy-duty bullet proofing of a Batsuit, still granted easy access to his skull.

_Raising his face from the pillow just enough to turn out the searing bright lamp, Dick is reminded of his idiotic reasoning in the past. He’d wanted to let his hair whip in the wind, feel the cool breath of flight. Even after getting shot in the head (shot in the head!), he’d never thought to follow Jason’s model of a helmet, or even a cowl that could dampen some blows. The frequent migraines coupled with bouts of memory loss and inattention that now plague him are the price Dick pays for not thinking straight in the first place. _

Hair and scalp free from a sweaty cowl or heavy mask, limbs free enough to pull off his acrobatic stunts in combat, younger Dick certainly had different priorities. Certain vital parts of the suit deflected most blows, but knifes could, and did, easily slip into the bendy places where Dick’s flexibility demanded thinner material. Knees, elbows, neck, lower torso, just about every joint and limb was left vulnerable to blades and bullets.

_When Dick takes a shower, he sometimes gets lost tracing the network of scars congregated on his joints. He holds a finger in the crease of his elbow and watches the skin stretch as he straightens his arm. The thicker, paler skin bunches differently when he moves, sometimes sparking phantom pains, reminders of the wounds it was born from. He doesn’t always remember if it was a switchblade or just a grazing gunshot, if the hit landed on Robin or Nightwing. His brain had suffered a few too many concussions to keep everything straight all the time. _

It was almost certainly Dick’s fighting style that doomed him to so much future pain. The very thing which made him unpredictable, gave him a leg up (sometimes very literally) in a fight, was the same thing that ruined his body. No wonder no one else was doing it. So many sharp turns and high impact landings, forcing his aging body to twist and contort like it used to, they took their toll sooner rather than later.

As Robin, Dick had been fine. His body as a child moved easily in the air, turned and bent in ways that made Batman wince in a sympathy he now shared. The art of aerobatics was an essential part of Robin, just as much a signature as the name itself. If Dick was the Last Flying Grayson, then goddammit he was going to keep flying, and do it proudly.

Even when he’d just been starting out as Nightwing, Dick had begun to feel the aches of calcified bone no longer bending in gymnastic fashion, shock-absorbing pads of cartilage worn away by so, so much wear and tear. If Dick had been thinking, he’d have switched to fighting the normal way, the way just about everyone around him did: punches and kicks, simple weaponry, no fancy stunts. But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

_Dick stands, prompting his vertebrae and hips and knees to scream and creak in unison, and he wonders if it would have even been possible. Maybe he could have mastered a new, safer style of combat, protected his body and been just as effective in stopping crime. He used to be a very quick learner. But maybe it would have never caught on in his already-trained muscles, and just slowed him down, rendered his efforts useless. Dick would never know for sure. It was a path he had not pursued. _

So many injuries, so many trips to Leslie. Dr. Thompkins had warned both Robin and Batman about the dangers of their work, and especially the risk of addiction to the painkillers that went alongside it. They’d done their best to keep doses low, managed the pain with distraction and hot water bottles and ice packs, but it hadn’t been enough. There was always something that truly needed painkillers: messy fractures, surgery recovery, horrible burns from bombings. Bruce had probably thought he was being kind when he denied himself medication and instead offered it to his young protégé, didn’t truly realize the long-term consequences. Dick held out until he became Nightwing, until he was taking over as the Bat, even. Then, after an operation to mend his incorrectly healing patella, he woke up in agony, despite being on a probably unsafely high dose of morphine. There wasn’t any option but to grin and bear it after that.

_Sometimes Dick can’t tell if the burning agony in his knees comes from his joints or his skin, or is some fiery amalgamation of the two. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. These days, he can do just about as much for his inflamed joints as he can for the psychosomatic pain of his scars. Lay down, drink something hot and comforting, or try to distract himself with television or talking to someone. His tolerance for painkillers had never gone away, despite his abstinence after that horrible surgery, potentially a side effect of the various toxins Dick and Bruce were exposed to, Dr. Thompkins had said. Bruce suffered the same way, Dick reminds himself, and feels the too-late pangs of sympathy for his mentor, recalling the later days when the original Batman could barely even pull himself out of bed. _

_Dick isn’t Nightwing or Batman anymore. He can’t be. With the way his migraines flare up suddenly and his unexpected lapses in memory and attention, he can’t even manage the coms for his able-bodied family. He can’t do anything but watch them on the news, soak up as much time with them as he can when they visit, and hope beyond hope they never share these scars. _


	5. Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 24: Secret Injury   
I don't know if this fits entirely, but, hey. Close enough. For this one, Dick is Batman, and has been working with Damian as his Robin for a couple of weeks.   
Batman and Robin are captured by someone who wants to know the Bat's real name (who doesn't?), and Robin suspects it wouldn't have even happened if Batman hadn't been fighting like he wasn't injured.

Robin closed his eyes. Chains around his legs and chest holding him to a pole in some horrible basement, belt and gloves discarded, goons coming at him, it was the only option left. At least he wouldn’t see when the baseball bat hit him, and maybe he could pretend it didn’t hurt as much if he couldn’t see it.

_Wham!_ Damian jerked futilely against the chains, not making a sound. It definitely still hurt. He opened his eyes to glare at the figures looming in the poorly lit room.

“Come on, birdie,” the goon who’d swung growled at him. “All you gotta do is tell us who the Batman is, and you go free. Boss isn’t interested in killing a sidekick, but I’m not opposed to doing this the hard way.”

Damian spat at him, and received a solid blow to the ribs for it. He didn’t have any clues as to who was holding him (what villain wasn’t desperate for the Bat’s real identity?), but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking him so easily. He was mostly concerned for how his elder partner was holding up.

Batman had also been taken, caught by surprise and weakened from several injuries he’d been hiding for the past week. Damian almost hadn’t noticed, but then he took an early morning trip to the Batcave when he was supposed to be asleep (“Sleep is _important,_ Dami. You don’t get enough sleep, you aren’t at a hundred percent, and we can’t risk that.”). In the dark, he’d caught of glimpse of Alfred changing wrappings on Grayson’s probably broken ribs, while the vigilante himself held an icepack to a shoulder that was swollen and an awful shade of purple. It looked like they were arguing about something, probably Grayson’s habit of letting injuries get near debilitating before seeking treatment, but Damian had gone back upstairs before he got close enough to hear any of the words.

If these thugs were ready to beat Batman’s identity out of him, Robin could only imagine what they were doing to the man himself. He was sure he was going to need to find his own way out of this situation. Batman was out of the picture, especially if he had chains as tight as Robin’s around already broken ribs. Robin wasn’t sure one of his own wasn’t cracked by the combined blow and pressure from the metal links. Damn it, he was going to have to find Batman, too, after he got out, wasn't he? Alfred would be pissed if he left him here. 

“Alright,” one of the figures behind him was saying, “So you want to do this the hard way, kid? We’ll do it the hard way. I’d give you about a minute before you’re screaming the Bat’s name to all of Gotham.”

_Unlikely,_ Robin thought to himself, keeping his expression neutral as the shadowy goons gathered in front of him, preparing to swing a variety of blunt weapons, indistinguishable in the dark. He closed his eyes again, focusing. Robin’s fingers wriggled beneath the chains, desperate to find some flaw or tools left unnoticed by his captors. He heard a door creak open (the “boss” finally making an appearance, maybe?), and the goons yell. He braced himself more tightly, temporarily distracted from his task. He could resume when the onslaught lessened, he thought.

But the blows didn’t land, although Robin still heard the grunts and impacts of bats and pipes being swung, connecting with something. Some_one. _He opened to eyes to see a very familiar crest. If he had less control over himself, he might have yelled in surprise. Because Batman was certainly in no shape to be fighting like he was, tossing lackies left and right. Metal and wood came down hard on Batman’s armored suit, landing with greater frequency and strength than normally would make it through the Bat’s defenses. Still, Batman was doing more damage than he was taking, knocking out his attackers one by one. Steadily, their numbers shrank, and the last few remaining had the sense to flee.

Still a little shocked, Robin barely noticed as his restraints were yanked away and he was pulled into a tight embrace. Instinctively, he pushed back against the black material, and felt Batman wince when he drove his palm into the shoulder Robin was pressed to. Before he could gather himself to apologize (“It’s good manners to say sorry when you hurt someone. Especially if you didn’t mean it.”), the door was slammed open, startling Robin to look up. He barely saw the outline of a person holding a gun before Batman was scooping him up like some sort of helpless kitten and taking flight out the window opposite the door.

They landed roughly on the roof adjacent to the building where they’d been held, and Batman took off, Robin still secure in his arms. It was slightly humiliating, but Robin was still trying to figure out how to breathe without his maybe-cracked rib protesting, so he wouldn’t complain. However, after they’d gone a few blocks, he felt one of Batman’s hands almost slip, and they slowed to a stop under the cover of shadows.

“I’m sorry, kid, my arms aren’t in a good place for this right now. Do you think you can walk?” Robin couldn’t imagine ripping off the chains did any favor’s for Batman’s clearly compromised shoulders. Even during the fight, Robin recalled Batman fighting mostly through redirection and kicks, only throwing punches if necessary. It was an uncommon fighting style for the Bat, although familiar to Grayson. And while Robin’s chest wasn’t great, his legs were fine, protected by the chains wrapped around them, and he quickly hopped out of Batman’s hold.

“I am alright.” Batman sighed quietly, clearly relieved. “_I_ was not hiding any impairments prior to my capture.” This time, the breath that escaped the Bat was far more tired.

“I’m sure I’ll get the whole lecture when we get back. For now, let’s just get home, alright?”

**Author's Note:**

> I am looking for more information about Batfam (especially Tim, who I know next to nothing about), so if you have series to recommend, please do! I'm almost finished Young Justice, and I've seen Son of Batman. I'm also watching Titans, although I know it doesn't really stay true to everything else. Teen Titans is next on my list.  
Thank you so much for reading!


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